


In Other Places and Better Times

by Anonymous



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors
Genre: Anger, Angst, Betrayal, Dream Sequence, Flashbacks, Introspection, M/M, Mutually Unrequited, Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 21:43:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17231732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: While waiting to be woken, the Lion dreams of what might have been.  But even repose, reality is two steps away.





	In Other Places and Better Times

Dreams were a rare occurrence for the Primarch of the First Legion as, like his brothers and sons, he did not need to sleep and when begrudged by his body to do so, was unaccustomed to letting it rest for more than an hour at a time.

But here, in this wretched eternity his blasted right-hand man had sent him to, the gears of his mind spun on, heedless of his body's state. He was alive but unable to sense anything. It was not so much a state of blindness as it was a removal from all he had known. If he imagined it, Caliban itself could spring up about him but it was not the real thing. None of it was.

How he had hated. How he still did. It was all Luther's fault, all of it, and _his_ only failing had been trusting him. Yes, Luther had found him, but the Lion had raised him to the stars. He had given him a rank without equal in their legion and even after he had sent him away, he could not bear to take his rank, no more than he could change the central location of Luther's throwing knife in his gallery of arms — or better yet, throw the child's toy away.

He had loved him, and he had been betrayed. And from that betrayal, a cloying dark hatred festered until he refused to dream of Caliban at all and instead took to other worlds and alternate scenarios. It was all Luther's fault, he was certain, and if Luther were out of the picture, then he would have never hesitated to bombard the planet from orbit. The planet would have never had the chance to _turn_ , he imagined.

The Lion dreamt then, of a galaxy spaced so that it was Caliban and not Cthonia that was closest to Terra. The Emperor would find him at the same age Horus had been found and take him back to the palace to raise as his own. There was a poetic righteousness in that: the master of the First Legion being the first to be found. He liked that.

He would use the might of the Imperium and the polished finesse of his Astartes to civilise Caliban from the get-go. He would help the Emperor find his brothers and there would be no tension between them, none of Horus' childish attachments. He had always been at ease — relieved, even — knowing there were others out there like him, among the stars. It was the opposite case that he dreaded on those empty Caliban nights.

Thinking of Caliban reminded him of Luther. In this dream, where was he? He did not exist in certain dreams; sometimes the Lion stayed in the forests until the Emperor found him and had no need for a jealous mentor. But he still needed a First Captain, a right-hand, and for that position, there could only be one man.

Owing to disparate chronologies, on this Caliban, he had been full-grown by the time Luther was born. Luther was the orphan this time around and it was Lion who found him and named him and taught him how to read and write and stay away from strangers and look people in the eye when talking to them. It was Lion who showed him how to use sword and knife and shield, and then laspistol and boltgun and chainsword.

Look at how easy this is, a bitter voice muttered. Look at the true love and affection I shower upon you and how it is returned with adoration and companionship.

In this world, Luther will grow up to be a hero and champion of the Dark Angels. He will make the full transition to Astartes and someday his direct superior will fall on some greenskin world and Lion with elevate him to the rank he has been groomed for. He will be First Captain here and he will have eyes for no one but his Primarch and they will fight hundreds of conquests across the stars and never once will he think of sabotaging his lord and master and never will he be cast aside. They are the closest of brothers and the dearest of friends, they are the sun and moon of their legion, the unrivalled pair.

But it is different, fundamentally so. He takes Luther under his wing knowing full well the child — however prodigious, however capable and determined and well-taught — would never, under any circumstance, best him. He would never have to live in Luther's shadow, not as Luther had done, and with their roles reversed, he was allowed to be gracious — indulgent, even — to the point where this Luther (who was not _his_ Luther, no matter how much he ached for it to be so, for _his_ Luther had stabbed him in the back and thrown their years and years of brotherhood and love to the side for what? Some fool's chance at power? — it still hurt to think of him) chided him in private on his overt displays of favouritism.

Like a haphazardedly built wall, with one loose brick, the whole facade tumbled down. This Luther could not be his favourite, no matter how close they were, for he was not the same man Lion knew, the same one who had taken him from the forests and taught him the ways of man, and for that, Lion could not love him the most.

Furthermore, who was he, if not the child found by Luther? If the Emperor were to raise him, he would have been given an altogether different name. Some mythological figure from Terra no doubt, like Aten or Osiris or even Horus himself. He did not think of himself as any of those names; indeed, he could not think of himself as anyone other than Lion, for that was the name Luther had given him and the name Luther called him by and the name Luther had screamed even as he delivered that near-fatal blow.

The bastard. The absolute bastard. Lion hated him so in that moment. He was everything and he, in turn, had sought with utter earnestness to return the favour. How many others of Luther's age would have been given immortality? How many test subjects had been sacrificed so that they might perform the Astartes' operation on him with no chance of failure?

Without the Lion, Luther would have died decades ago. He would have never even left Caliban.

The issue was, without Luther, the Lion was without a name, without _his_ name, and it was a dreadful thing to be without a name (he remembered those years well, the dark and lonely days spent in relative isolation slaughtering the beasts that dared attack him in the woods of Caliban).

It was a conundrum and one he had yet to solve. Without Luther he would not be here, alive yet asleep and helpless to do anything (like wring the neck of the backstabbing wretch that had put him in such a long sleep to begin with!). Without Luther, he would have surely survived, he would have surely excelled, but he would not be himself, he would not be Lion.

It was an awful feeling, the net of dependency which that even the most wishful of dreams could not shear from him.

He dreamt then, of all the ways it might end. For he would not die. Not like this, not now. The next time he woke, he would find Luther and finish the job. No hesitation, the other had obviously not had such lingering sentiments for his old charge. Lion would return the favour threefold and have him torn limb from limb. His head would be staked outside of the stronghold walls as a warning to those who might seek to betray him still. They existed in the Legion, they always had. But he cared not a whit for them, not then and not now.

But if it were not so — if Luther was already dead and punished, then what could he do? The thought of waking up without him there at all hurt, even with the hatred and righteous anger. Even in this, Luther seeked to rob him. His heart clenched in grief even if he did not mean to grieve. The man he had loved more than any other had died years ago, for the Luther he knew would have never hesitated in alerting them to the bomb, would have never dared draw a sword on Lion in cold blood.

And still he grieved.

He snarled and banished this dream too, wallowing in the murky darkness that was absolution from piecemeal fantasy. He hated Luther, that much he was certain. But he hated himself too, for allowing the other to have such a hold over him in the first place. It was through his own weakness that he had been betrayed at all.

The Lion closed his eyes and let himself fall into the shadows of a deeper slumber. He sank, as if below the waves, and traveled back to simpler happier times.

He had won first prize in the squires' jousting tournament. He was beaming from ear to ear while he ran to Luther, gold medal dangling from one hand and the sword his mentor had given him in the other. Luther caught him with a roar of pride, hoisting him up into the air as Lion laughed with all the joy of a child.

And in that moment, there was only truth.


End file.
